


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 7

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:25:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress.</p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read the whole thing, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 7

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Chapter 7**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

“You _are_ the girl with the hound, yes? If not, please, accept my humblest apologies for troubling you.”

Mozu stood speechless and terrified.

“It's just that one rarely ever sees another of our kind at this sort of thing,” Olcán continued, “and when I spotted you earlier and watched you for a bit—” He looked embarrassed suddenly. “I am no voyeur, I assure you—but you looked so familiar.” He bowed his head and backed away. “Again, madam, my apologies.”

“No—I mean, yes. That was me. Is me,” Mozu fumbled.

_What in the fuck is he doing here!?_

His bright amber eyes lit up in astonishment, and he bowed his head again, extending a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Olcán. A simple commoner, and of no noteworthy birth. Of little import among such esteemed—” he gestured toward a nearby gaggle of celebrants and smirked. “Well, I’m sure you can find your own words for them. Choice ones, even.”

Olcán stood slightly shorter than she, possibly due to the shoes that Cordelia had insisted she wear, and which were currently causing her feet no small amount of discomfort. His skin was the color of the dark cherry that rested at the bottom of her nearly empty whiskey sour, and his face was both handsome and strange—an amalgam of the delicate shapes of leaf edges and strong yet slightly feminine male features. A shock of bright orange leaves ran down his scalp in a single line, waving faintly in the breeze from the open windows.

It seemed almost alive—well, technically it _was_ alive, Mozu reminded herself as she unconsciously put a hand to her own vivid blue fronds—a single strip of fire upon his otherwise smooth scalp.

She forced a smile onto her face and put that same hand into his with all the enthusiasm that she would have mustered for putting it into a bear trap. “Mozu,” she introduced herself, and her eyes darted around in panic. She spied Cordelia through the crowd, speaking animatedly with a handsome gentleman around her age. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the heart pounding away in her breast, and fighting off a sudden, unexplainable pang of jealousy. “I'm merely a dressmaker's apprentice, and of little concern. Except possibly as a curiosity to these goodfolk.”

Olcán kissed her gloved hand and chuckled. “Indeed, you are a curious one. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mozu.”

“Just Mozu is fine.”

“As you wish, Mozu. What an interesting name,” he remarked and said it again. “Mozu.” Olcán smirked as he joined her at the bar, leaning upon his elbows. “I would ask if I could buy you another cocktail, but it would seem that I would be stymied there, due to those two sweet, delicious words—possibly the very pinnacle of our lovely language when placed together—the _open bar_.” He signaled to the bartender as he glanced curiously at a few crates of wine set behind the long counter.

“What brings you here, then, Mister Olcán, if you're not some distant relative of the queen?”

He laughed, and slid the bartender a gold coin as the mustachioed, workmanlike fellow placed another whiskey sour and a martini before them. The bartender's eye widened, and the coin quickly disappeared.

“Just Olcán, please. Simply put,” he took a sip, “I have money, and they,” he flapped a hand over one shoulder toward the ballroom, “love money. Well, that, and I run one of the largest shipping firms in the country. And beyond that, come to think of it. How's your drink?”

Mozu was completely baffled, but managed to hum appreciatively as she took a somewhat unladylike gulp. Music began to play from the other room, and Olcán straightened up, looking very serious. “Would you care to dance?”

She was so taken by surprise that she actually laughed. “No, please gods, no.” She waved her hands and covered her mouth as she giggled.

“Oh, good. I'm a terrible dancer. I much prefer to people-watch, anyway.”

“I thought you said that you were no voyeur,” she teased.

_What the hell are you doing, girl? Flirting!?_

“Well,” he pursed his lips as his eyes swept the mirror that hung above the bar, giving him an excellent view of her bare back in the low-cut dress, “perhaps just a bit, but of the harmless variety, I assure you.”

_Harmless!? Are you fucking kidding me!?_

“Oh, I see,” she raised an eyebrow.

“One is what one is.” He took another long sip. “This gin is terrible,” Olcán complained. “One would think people who practically shit gold bricks—pardon my language—would actually stock something decent.”

“A connoisseur, are we?”

“Well, I have been known to enjoy a drink, and perhaps,” he looked at her face and smiled, “I just enjoy the finer things in life.”

“You're quite the smooth talker,” she quipped.

“And you're quite blunt. You sound a bit like one of the human commoners—you've even picked up their accent. It's . . . refreshing.”

It was Mozu’s turn to smirk, and she looked at him dubiously. “You're the one with the accent.”

Olcán laughed as he returned his attention to his drink, and made a face. “Really, now,” he said to no one in particular.

Curiosity, and her bluntness, finally got the best of her. “How did you know who I was?”

Olcán straightened up again. “Oh! Well—”

A sweet, feminine voice cut him off. “Mozu, dear, could you come with me? Pardon me, sir, I only need her for a moment.” Cordelia smiled her most dazzling smile at him, and he gestured grandly.

“But of course.”

Cordelia, still smiling, led her away from the bar, away from the ballroom, and shoved her into a closet in a quiet hallway. She followed Mozu inside and shut the door.

“Do you have any idea who that is?” Cordelia hissed at her in the darkness. Mozu got the impression that if secrecy weren’t an issue, she would be shrieking instead.

“Yes,” Mozu whispered, “he's a viceroy of the Nightmare Court.”

Cordelia was silent for a moment. “That was a rhetorical question! How do you know who he is?”

“I saw him once. A long time ago. In the Dream.”

Cordelia was silent again. “Okay, but more importantly right now,” she explained, “he's the head of Four Winds Shipping. The Order has been investigating him and his corporation for years on multiple suspicions of . . . anyway, he's dangerous!”

“I know. I've seen his handiwork.”

“Make an excuse and leave with me. Now.”

“What?” Mozu rankled at being ordered around after such an unpleasant evening, even if Cordelia was probably in the right.

“If he finds out that you have any affiliation with us, he'll—”

“Cordelia. I know what he is beneath that veneer of geniality. But he's talking to me like I'm just some normal girl right now, and—”

“You're not seriously _staying_?”

“He likes to drink—what if he drops something important?”

“Don't turn this around on me! You have no idea what you’re getting into!” Cordelia raised her voice, and quieted down again just as quickly.

“I'm not, just . . . please. Trust me. If anything happens, I'll run. Or kill him. Whichever seems easiest at the time.”

“How can you even _consider_ this, if you know what he is?”

“I—” Mozu didn't really have an answer. “He's interesting, and charming, and maybe I actually _want_ to feel like a normal girl for the first time in my life, even if it's just for a little while.”

“ _Gods_ , Mozu.” Cordelia sounded exasperated and furious. “Linebaugh would kill me—kill us both for this. If anything happened to you he'd—” she fell silent for a moment. “ _I_ don't want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing will. I promise. I'll be home safe and sound later.”

“You’d better be,” she scolded. “I'm headed home. I've had about all I can stand of this crowd for one evening.” Cordelia opened the door a crack and peered into the hall. She held the door open for Mozu, and grabbed her roughly by the arm. “BE. CAREFUL.” And with that, Cordelia turned and left her standing in the empty hallway, rubbing at her forearm and contemplating her own stupidity.

Olcán was looking at his pocket watch when Mozu returned. Relief spread across his face. “I was worried that you'd gone. Is everything alright?”

“She wasn't feeling well, to put it mildly. She's headed home—I offered to walk her, but . . .” Mozu shrugged.

“Oh, well, I'm both quite sorry and quite pleased to hear that.”

“Oh?”

“Well, now I have you all to myself.”

“Oh, do you?”

“No,” he laughed, “but the look on your face was worth it.” Mozu bumped him with her elbow, and he laughed again.

“In all seriousness, though, you're not looking well yourself. Perhaps I should escort you home.” Under his breath he added, “And I've had about enough of this.” He nodded toward the crowds of milling nobles.

“It is certainly tiresome,” Mozu agreed.

Olcán laid his jacket across her shoulders as they stepped out onto the cobblestones.

“Such the gentleman,” she teased him.

“Would you prefer I were ruder? Here now, give me back my jacket, then. It's chilly out here.” He made a halfhearted grab at her and she danced away.

“No. And . . . I prefer you this way.” Mozu took his arm as they strolled down the avenue.

Olcán was quiet for a few minutes. “Not to sound too forward, but my own apartments are just up the way here if, perhaps, you would care to join me for another drink?” he asked in a somewhat halting manner. “Or, perhaps we could meet for lunch some afternoon,” he added quickly.

Mozu put a finger to her chin as if pondering the question, and she smiled coyly. “I am a bit thirsty still.”

 

Mozu had to stifle a laugh as she removed her gloves and kicked off her shoes.

Olcán's study was the very picture of what a gentleman's study was _supposed_ to be. Dark oak paneling; a huge woven rug upon the floor; a large desk made from expensive woods with a matching filing cabinet set next to it; rows and rows of books; two leather chairs placed near the marble fireplace, a small table with an ashtray and humidor between them; and, of course, a beautiful liquor cabinet with only the finest, most expensive libations, all arranged neatly according to some obscure methodology known only to the owner, along with a wide selection of fine crystal glassware.

“It's lovely,” she lied.

Olcán shrugged nonchalantly as he folded his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the leather chairs.

Mozu peered out through glass double doors that led to a tiny balcony, then made a slow circuit of the room, stopping occasionally to read a title along the spine of one of the numerous books resting in orderly rows upon their shelves. “You never answered my question—how did you know who I was?”

Olcán chuckled as he handed her a martini. “No ice—I apologize—but excellent gin. I could make you something else if you prefer, however.” She shook her head and took the drink from his hand, and their fingers brushed together, lingering for a moment.

“I simply happened to be in the Grove that day on business,” he explained, matter-of-factly. “For the first time in years I felt another mind, another’s feelings. Anger and sadness, a desire for freedom—well, needless to say, I was more than I little intrigued, and so off I went in search of this kindred spirit.” He smirked as he brought his own drink—whiskey, neat, barrel-aged and nearly thirty years old—to his lips.

“Sadly, now, like all of our kin that I come in contact with, that connection is little more than a blank wall to me—inscrutable and unyielding—but for that one moment . . .” He left his thoughts unspoken as he took another sip.

_What in the hell is he talking about?_

“Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps dumb luck, but I was there when you were brought into this world in a way I can only envy. Violently.”

Mozu was dumbstruck for a long moment. “Violence and I have had more than a passing acquaintance,” she admitted, and immediately wondered why the hell she had.

“Of that I have little doubt,” Olcán purred as he admired her sleek, muscular arms and shoulders appreciatively and unabashedly.

“You were,” he inhaled deeply, “quite a sight to behold as that puppet tore and rent your pod asun—”

“Puppet?” Mozu was taken aback.

He looked at her quizzically. “The hound. The talking one.”

“Ibara was with me from . . . the start . . . in . . .” she trailed off, suddenly quite unsure of herself.

Olcán waved a long, delicate hand apologetically. “I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that you’re so, well, naïve. You really know nothing of our people, do you?” Mozu opened her mouth to object, but he quietly cut her off, staring at a spot on the floor, “In that way, too, I envy you.”

She felt a bit light-headed suddenly, whether from the alcohol or from the myriad thoughts racing through her head, she was unsure. “What do you mean?”

It took a moment before Olcán registered her voice. He looked back up at her and smiled sadly.

“The hound. It tore open your pod and spoke—apparently trying to convince you that you had shared a pod together, if I understand correctly—but for one thing, hounds don’t speak. They’re just as they appear. Dogs—stupid, if loyal.”

“You lie,” she said, unconvincingly.

“You must think that the Mother learned only the most honorable and noble of traits from the humans and centaur,” Olcán said without a hint of mockery, “but _that_ would be a lie. She has, like us all, learned the value of our, mmm, less savory traits—cunning, trickery, deceit . . .” He seemed to notice the drink in his hand for the first time and took another sip. “And so you have been deceived by her. Not the first, and I’m quite sure not the last.” Olcán looked at her with some concern. “Would you like to sit?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Fine.” Mozu relaxed her grip on the glass and set it down. “Why would she do that?”

Olcán spread his hands. “Who can say? Who can fathom the mind of such a . . . being? I have no doubt that she is fond of her children in some fashion or other, but much like the fruit of any normal tree is merely there to disseminate seeds, we, her children, her own fruit, are simply tools to further her own agenda. To use as she sees fit, and to discard when we’re no longer needed.”

Mozu was quiet for a moment, then picked the glass back up, tilted it back, and downed the remainder of the cocktail before she spoke again. “If that were true, why give us,” she groped for the word, “sentience?”

Olcán spread his hands again. “I admit, I do not claim to have all the answers. Perhaps thinking, reasoning beings are easier to manipulate and bend to her will than simple animals. Certainly, we can follow much more complex instructions than, say, your puppet hound. Perhaps it was simply a mistake on her part.”

“How did she—”

“She spoke through the creature. Simple as that. Fed you whatever lies that you wanted to, or she thought you needed to, hear. I suspect if you return to the Grove, he will still be there somewhere. One lone fern hound in a sea of identical faces, just as stupid as the rest.”

A single tear ran down the cheek of Mozu’s otherwise blank expression. “You’re telling me,” she said slowly and softly, “that it was all a lie? Even my _name_ is a lie?”

He reached out to brush the tear away with his thumb as he stroked the side of her face. Mozu suppressed a violent shudder with a monumental effort.      

“Such a delicate flower,” he lamented.

Olcán suddenly seemed to remember something and reached for the golden timepiece in the pocket of his vest. He glanced at it for an instant and smiled sadly at Mozu again. “The hour grows late, I fear, but I feel compelled to ask if you would you care for another drink. I admit, our conversation isn’t a terribly pleasant one, but all the same I am greatly enjoying your company.”

Mozu looked away, but nodded.

Olcán walked to the liquor cabinet again and set the glasses down. As he turned back toward her, a muffled explosion rang out from somewhere nearby, setting the bottles and glassware jangling. In two long strides, he crossed the room and threw open the twin glazed doors, stepping out onto the balcony. Olcán put his hands upon the iron railing and gazed down the street.

The second storey of the Van Holstens’ opulent manor was a ruin of smoke and flames. Rubble from the facade covered the street outside the building, and bits of burning paper and cloth drifted gently to the cobblestones. A cacophony of screams and shouts was soon joined by the clamor of the bell of the fire brigade.

Mozu glanced at the open doorway, then at the letter opener upon the desk. Her hand reached for it even as a better, yet much, much less appealing idea came to her.

“Oh, how awful,” Olcán sighed and chuckled quietly, watching the chaos unfold below. Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of a dress slithering to the floor. Olcán turned in surprise, and slow, sly smile spread across his face. “Well, then,” he remarked with undisguised lust.

Olcán devoured her with his eyes as he closed the glass doors and pulled Mozu toward him, leaving the citizens of Divinity's Reach to sort through the wreckage of the terror he had wrought.

 

The townhouse was dark and quiet as Mozu crept up the stairs well after midnight. The door to Cordelia’s room stood open, the bed empty and still made from the morning.

After a long, hot soak, she padded into the kitchen, wrapped in her robe, and lit a lamp. She rooted around in the cabinets until she found a bottle of cheap bourbon. Planting herself on one of the tall chairs that surrounded the table, Mozu wrestled the cork from the bottle and took a long swig. She flicked the cork across the room and watched as it rolled under the counter.

Some time and roughly half a bottle of bourbon later, the front door was thrown open and just as quickly slammed shut again. Cordelia sprinted past the kitchen and skidded to a halt.

Her hands and face were covered in soot and streaked with tears. She gaped at Mozu as she stormed into the room, and the shrieking finally began.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS?”

Mozu traced a whorl in the tabletop with her finger. “Out.”

“I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN _OUT_.” Cordelia tore her cloak off, snapping the silver clasp in the process, balled it up and threw it at Mozu as hard as she could. Mozu drunkenly batted it away.

“I JUST SPENT THE LAST THREE HOURS DIGGING THROUGH RUBBLE AND BODY PARTS, AND PRAYING TO THE GODS THAT YOU WERE STILL ALIVE.”

Mozu spread her arms and nearly knocked the bottle over. “Well, here I am. Safe an’ sound, just like I said.”

“THE VAN HOLSTENS’ MANSION IS SPREAD ALL OVER THE FUCKING STREET. SOMEONE PLANTED A BOMB THERE.”

“Oh, ‘zat what happened? Kinda saw it.”

“ _KINDA SAW IT?_ AND YOU COULDN’T LET ME KNOW THAT YOU WEREN’T DEAD?”

“Hadn’t really occurred to me.”

Cordelia stood there, dumbstruck and furious beyond reason.

“Drink?” Mozu proffered the bottle.

“Fuck you.” Cordelia fled the room as she started to cry again. “Asshole,” she shouted down the stairs. A door slammed.

Mozu stared at the bottle in her hands for a time. “Yup,” she proclaimed to the empty kitchen, and brought the bottle to her lips again.

It was shortly before dawn when Cordelia found Mozu asleep in the chair, head resting on one arm sprawled across the table. Mozu groaned as Cordelia shook her awake.

“Wuh?”

“Let’s get you into bed.”

“I don’t think I can walk,” she slurred.

“Come on.” Cordelia slung Mozu’s arm across her shoulders and helped the sylvari to her feet. She got Mozu onto her bed without too much difficulty, and sat on the floor nearby.

Mozu broke the silence. “Sorry.”

Cordelia sighed angrily. “What happened?”

“Stuff.” Mozu waved a hand.

Cordelia was quiet for a few moments as she worked up the courage to ask the question whose answer she dreaded hearing. “You didn’t—?” she began, and couldn’t finish. Mozu nodded, and Cordelia was quiet again.

“Had you ever—before?”

Mozu shook her head slowly.

“Why?”

Mozu draped an arm across her forehead.

“D’you want the _because he’s handsome an’ charming an’ made me feel something_ answer, or d’you want the _he wants to see me again soon, an’ maybe I can get in good an’ investigate whatever it is you were on about earlier_ answer? ‘Cuz right now, it’s probably a bit of both, an’ I’m pretty sure I’ll regret the whole thing like hell come morning.”

“It _is_ morning,” Cordelia joked in an attempt to mask her own feelings.

“Well, fuck.” The first tear crept from beneath Mozu’s tightly closed eyelid. Her other arm slid off the bed and groped around in the empty air. Cordelia grasped it and brought the strong, slender blue hand to her cheek as she doubled over and her shoulders began to tremble.

Mozu slipped her hand from Cordelia’s to run it through her friend and mentor’s hair. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as Cordelia wept. “I’m so sorry.”

 

They met that evening in a ruined house near what was once the Canthan district. Mozu hated being anywhere near the place and kept her hand on the pommel of the dagger at her back, for whatever good it might do her.

The first time Cordelia showed her around town, she brought Mozu to the massive sinkhole where once there was a thriving community. Mozu had peered over the edge, expecting to see piles of rubble and splintered timbers just a short way down. What she saw drove her mad momentarily, as far as Cordelia was concerned. She’d had to catch the dizzy, screaming sylvari before she tumbled in as well, and the girl clung to her in a death grip until they were well away from the district. Cordelia still hated remembering the look on Mozu’s face that afternoon.

An asura appeared in a patch of moonlight, limping slightly. Hooded and masked, he was dressed in surprisingly ornate garb of black, red, and gold. An odd choice for a clandestine gathering, Mozu thought

Cordelia, in her voluminous black cloak, saluted him, and he returned the salute in kind.

He began without preamble, his eyes fixed on Mozu. “Misericorde has kept me well informed on the details of your training and progress. She has also informed me that you have . . . had relations with Olcán of the Rose. Is this true?”

Mozu glanced at Cordelia, but her face was hidden in shadow. Mozu nodded.

“And you have plans to meet with him again?”

She nodded again.

“Misericorde?” He turned to Cordelia, who, after a moment’s pause, nodded as well.

The asura clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the distance. His raised his head to look Mozu in the eye, and asked her, “Will you join us?”

Her mouth opened a time or two, yet no sound came out.

The asura waited a few moments, then spoke again. “Misericorde has _also_ wisely informed me about the two operations that you have already taken part in. This is highly unusual, as we never would have—normally—” he glanced at Cordelia for a moment, “even let an initiate anywhere near either one.”

The asura raised a hand dismissively toward Cordelia as he continued speaking to Mozu. “No punitive action will be taken on my part, however. Both operations were successful, you have been recommended by two long-time agents in good standing, and . . . your _connection_ to Olcán of the Rose would be invaluable to our cause.”

Mozu took a long moment to put her thoughts in order before speaking. “Line—Wanderer and Misericorde are the two people that I trust most in this world. If they think that I can help, then . . . I can’t really come up with a reason why not.” She looked to her mentor again.

“I do,” Cordelia agreed in a soft and hesitant voice.

The asura nodded and bowed. “Then in the name of the Master of Whispers, I hereby decree that while you still have much to learn, you are fit for the rank of Lightbringer, and welcome you. I am the coordinator of all Order activities in and around Divinity’s Reach. You may call me Muffin.

“Know the unknowable, and all that,” he waved a hand.

 _Muffin? Oh, gods. Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh_.            

Mozu had to bite her lower lip and stare out the empty window frame for a few moments before she trusted herself to speak. Muffin sighed, “It’s a long story, and not worth retelling. Come up with a code name for yourself and let us kn—”

“Butcher,” Mozu said instantly. She had been appalled by the title at first, but she had heard it so often in the months she'd spent in Heimdall’s Reach that it had become like a second name and lost most of its unpleasant connotations. It was a title she was proud of, and one that she had earned with her own blood.

Muffin paused. “As you wish, Butcher.”

“Er, so now what?”

The asura chuckled. “Raring to go, eh? Continue your dalliances with Olcán of the Rose. Infiltrate the organization that we suspect is hidden within Four Winds Shipping, and feed us as much information as you safely can. If you are found out, flee, and we will shelter you.

“We could have termintated him any number of times, but we suspect that he has a huge network of contacts among the various separatist groups, the Inquest, the Nightmare Court of course, and possibly even the Flame Legion. We also suspect that he may be funding, inciting, or at worst coordinating acts of terrorism by these groups. To what end, we cannot say.

“Investigations have been quite difficult due to his financial and political connections—and how convenient that a number of his political enemies were killed in the recent explosion at the Van Holsten manor. While agents have infiltrated his home before, they have found nothing of use or value. He keeps a magically and mechanically locked filing cabinet that we are at a loss to crack open—another thing to keep in mind.

“Any overt action on our part could cause any number of problems for the Order, and a quiet investigation, such as embedding an agent such as yourself within his organization, will bring us far more information—more names, more faces, and so forth.

“Does that answer your question sufficiently?”

Mozu swallowed hard. “Yep.”

“Dismissed.” The asura raised a hand in farewell as he disappeared back into the shadows.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” Mozu asked aloud after a few moments.

Cordelia turned and climbed from the wreckage of the house without a word. That was far worse than hearing her say, “I told you so.”

 

The next few weeks passed strangely, Mozu thought. Cordelia had grown somewhat distant and agitated, worry on her face evident every time Mozu prepared to meet with, and frequently spend the night with, Olcán. Her training and exercises slowed to a halt as Cordelia spent more and more of her time measuring and cutting and sewing, engrossed in her work.

Whenever she was with Olcán, she tried her best to push those memories and visions of him in her Dream from her mind, and live the role she’d been given. It wasn’t hard most of the time, she had to admit. He was funny and witty, charming, and as far as she could tell, having no previous experience in the matter, a more than capable lover. He was, she noted, quite meticulous—even fussy at times. Whenever Mozu arrived to spend the night, she would drop her things wherever, and she could see that it drove him crazy, even if he kept silent about it, which is probably why she continued to do it.

He seemed genuinely saddened by her imminent departure from Divinity’s Reach—to spend time with an old friend who had lost his wife and was having a rough time of things (which wasn’t so far from the truth she told herself)—and brightened considerably when she assured him that she would be back within a few months at the longest. “If I’m away on business at the time, leave a message with the concierge, and I’ll rush to see you when I get back,” he told her.

Mozu requested a meeting with Muffin, although she made it very clear that it be _anywhere_ but the wreckage of the Canthan district. He suggested lunch at the small café near her home.

She flipped through the illustrated anthology of children’s stories once more, checking to make sure the fairly detailed report on Olcán and anything she may have heard, or overhead, from him about his business dealings was still tucked safely inside. She closed the cover as a grey-haired and well-dressed asura entered the shop, limping toward her table with the aid of a cane.

He climbed onto the chair across from her with a grunt and ordered a coffee, then scanned the menu. “And how have you been, Mozu?” he inquired in a brisk tone.

“Well, Kirren, and you?”

“I can’t complain, although the leg always bothers me on days like this. We’ll have rain before nightfall, if I’m any judge of such matters.”

“How are the children?” she asked, as she tried to decide between two dishes.

“Oh, very well. Enjoying their preschooling well enough, although we’re trying to decide whether to send them to school here or back in Rata Sum.”

“Before I forget, here’s that book for them that I was telling you about.” Mozu slid the volume across the table, and he picked it up, peering at the cover.

“Wonderful. I’m sure they’ll enjoy it. I’ll return it soon, but perhaps I could borrow it again sometime?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” He turned to the waitress who had just arrived with his coffee. “I’ll have this,” he pointed at the menu, “but no pickles. _Please_.”

They sat chatting for a bit after lunch, and they walked together a short distance until their paths diverged. Kirren inclined his head, “Safe travels, Mozu. I hope to see you in Divinity’s Reach again soon.” He raised the book in farewell, and limped slowly down the avenue, whistling as he went.

 

Having finished planting bulbs in the cleared-out and freshly turned flower beds in the backyard, Mozu stood on the front stoop, ostensibly sweeping it clean, but mostly working the broom back and forth in one spot, lost in her thoughts. She'd planted a small climbing rose bush against the high fence as well, but wondered if that would turn out to be a bad omen in the end.

She gazed down the street disinterestedly when something caught her eye. In the distance, she spied a familiar figure with a gait that she would know anywhere. The broom clattered down the steps as Mozu bolted toward Linebaugh, running with all of her might in case he might mysteriously disappear before she got there.

He stopped in the middle of the road, grinning as he dropped his pack and gear. Mozu launched herself at him and hung from his neck as she pressed her face against his. He embraced her without a word.

They walked hand in hand back toward the townhouse. Linebaugh looked very tanned, and thinner than she remembered. “Ya been good while I been gone?” he asked with a smirk.

“Nope. Raising hell since you left.”

“Hah. Good girl.”

She searched for something to say, but was at a loss.

“What’s up?” Linebaugh asked.

 “It’s been . . . eventful, these past six months.” She avoided looking at him.

“Oh?”

Mozu shook her head. “Not here.”

“Ah.”

Cordelia was outwardly pleased to see Linebaugh, giving him a dazzling smile and welcoming him back to her home. To Mozu, though, the deepening of the fine lines around her eyes and mouth were a dead giveaway.

Over dinner, Cordelia and Mozu took turns attempting to explain the current situation to Linebaugh as the expression on his face grew darker and darker and he remarked less and less. He fumed silently as he ate.

“Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll head back,” is all he said for the rest of the meal.

Mozu was at a loss for words for a few moments. “It’ll be good to get home for a bit,” she agreed halfheartedly.

“Mmm!” hummed Cordelia brightly in agreement as she stood to clear the dishes. It was mostly an excuse to get away from the table, however, and give herself a moment to regain her composure as she stood rigidly at the counter.

They sat in the reception area afterward, sharing a bottle of wine and a generally uncomfortable silence.

“Are you outta yer godsdamned mind?” Linebaugh finally blurted. Cordelia focused on a painting hung on the far wall and pretended not to hear.

Mozu leapt to her feet. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” she demanded of him.

“What? Fer you ta go fuckin’ a dangerous sociopath? I can’t say I ever recall wantin’ that fer you, no.”

“What _is_ it you want for me then? A nice, tidy desk job shuffling papers around? Or I could be a housewife! Or hide up the foothills of Heimdall’s Lament for the rest of my life and—”

Linebaugh stood and slapped her.

Shocked, Mozu stared at the carpet. “You wanted me to help the Order, and help Tyria,” she said quietly, “and this is how I can for now. I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking.”

She turned and ran from the room, up the stairs.

He sat slowly and glared at Cordelia. “What tha fuck, Miz. How could y—”

“Don’t,” she snapped in a shaky voice. “Just . . . don’t.”

They sat in silence as the last light of day faded. The room grew dark, and neither bothered to light so much as a candle.

As Mozu packed her things, Linebaugh, both mentally and physically exhausted, retired to the study as well to sleep on the floor in his bedroll.

“I’m sorry. About earlier,” he managed by way of apology as he settled down.

“Me too,” Mozu mumbled. “About a lot of things.”

She picked up her pack and her weapons without another word and carried them to the entryway, where she dropped them next to the door. Cordelia surprised Mozu as she came out of the nearly pitch-black sitting room.

“Leaving already?” she tried to sound flippant but completely failed.

Something in Mozu’s chest clenched painfully at the anguish etched on Cordelia’s face. She suddenly longed to take her hands and gently smooth those lines of worry away.

“Are you heading to bed, or do you have time for one last drink?” Mozu smiled and hoped for all the world that it appeared genuine.

She and Cordelia sat in the kitchen and shared a bottle of wine, playing cards until morning. Neither said much. When Linebaugh made his way downstairs shortly before dawn, Mozu excused herself and went to dress for travel.

They stood awkwardly in the entryway. Cordelia hugged Linebaugh without a word, then turned to Mozu and hesitated for a moment before sliding her arms about the sylvari and squeezing her tightly. She kissed Mozu on the cheek and whispered into her ear, “I’ll miss you.” There was a slight hitch in Cordelia’s voice. “I’ll be back soon,” Mozu whispered in return. Cordelia released her eventually and turned away, clasping her hands in front of her.

Mozu raised an arm as if to reach out for her again, but thought better of it, and slipped out the door quietly to wait at the bottom of the stoop before her emotions got the better of her. Linebaugh stared at Cordelia’s back for a moment and laughed quietly. “You too, huh? She’s somethin’, ain’t she?”

Cordelia nodded.

Linebaugh scratched the back of his head. “Sorry fer just comin’ an’ goin’ again, Miz, an’ about last night. I’ll try an’ make it back soon, an' we kin have a proper visit.”

Cordelia nodded again.

“G’bye, Miz.”

As the door clicked shut, she wandered over to the kitchen doorway. Cards were splayed across the table between the two wine glasses, an empty bottle resting on its side nearby. Cordelia put a hand to her mouth as she stood in the silent, lifeless house.

She pinned a note to the front door, informing Meredith that she wouldn’t be needed this morning, then retreated to her bed for the remainder of the day.


End file.
